


The Sessions

by wyntirrose



Category: Transformers Generation One
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-26
Updated: 2015-10-12
Packaged: 2017-12-21 09:19:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,228
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/898589
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wyntirrose/pseuds/wyntirrose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For better or for worse, Smokescreen is the Autobots' psychologist, and he gets to deal with all their problems, issues, and neuroses.  These are a few of his sessions.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Bluestreak

I was sitting in my office waiting for my next session when Bluestreak walked in. He wasn't scheduled but the second I saw the stiff posture and the even stiffer doors, I knew that something was terribly wrong. He sat down opposite me and began to stare at the wall over my shoulder. It was then that I noticed his optics. They were dark, looking like hollows in his grey face. No functioning mech would walk around blinded like that. And certainly no sniper would voluntarily choose to.

I stood and approached him.

"Blue? Are you okay?" 

At least that's what I would have asked. The second his name left my vocalizer his gun was in his hand and pointed at my head. I carefully backed up, hands up in surrender as I did. Bluestreak was not in his right mind and he needed to work this out. Clearly though, words were not the answer, and the chances were that he would appreciate being touched even less.

So I did all that I could do. I sat in the chair opposite him and watched the young gunner carefully. Yes, my fellow Praxian was in need of counsel and comfort, but it was also clear that any sudden move or wrong word would get me sent back to the Matrix.

The very fact that Bluestreak wasn't talking up a storm had me worried. He hadn't said a single thing since coming into my office. Even his engine and vents were running silent, like he was hiding from something. Or preparing for a shot. Normally there was no shutting him up as he used noise and words and mindless chatter to keep his own personal demons at bay. Normally he was a ball of energy and sensuality. He moved, touched, talked, twitched, caressed, chattered, kissed; filling every moment of every day with distractions. The only time I had ever seen him like this was when we pulled him out of the wreckage of Praxis. ... or more specifically, when we finally got him to come down out of his makeshift sniper's nest.

I took to my chair and sat opposite him, waiting for him to make the first move. I cancelled my upcoming session with Tracks, and after another twenty minutes of total silence passed, I cancelled the rest of the day's appointments and locked my office down, sending a warning of potential events to both Prime and Ratchet and asking them not to interfere. Yes, I am nothing more than a con-artist with a forged degree on my wall, but I do know how to help my charges, and it is abundantly clear that Bluestreak needed me right then. The other Autobots' issues and neuroses could wait.

The rest of the hour continued minute after minute with the gunner simply staring at the far wall. His optics did lighten slightly and flicker occasionally, but that only served to accentuate the haunted look. Finally in the middle of hour two, his doors began to twitch slightly.

I took the opportunity and stood cautiously. With a measured and deliberate tread, I made my way to a cabinet and withdrew two cubes of energon. At no point did I take my optics off of Bluestreak. It was not the time to let my guard down in any way. I carefully approached my patient, moving as if I was dealing with a wounded and frightened animal. Making sure that I was in Blue's line of site, I cracked open one of the cubes and took a small sip before placing it in front of him on the table.

Bluestreak's doors bobbed slightly in response as if in thanks for the fuel and after several minutes he reached out and took the cube. In an instant he had downed the contents, drinking as if he was starved and the fuel would be taken away from him at any moment.

His now brighter optics landed on the second cube, and in an moment it too was devoured.

It was in the third hour of silence that Bluestreak finally seemed to come back to himself slightly. His optics seemed closer to a midnight blue and his doors' twitching came to be something closer to a bob and a dip than a twitch of panic. Taking a chance, I mimicked his movements with my own doors. It was an ancient form of Praxian communication. A subtle form of body language that was sometimes called 'the door code'. There were so few of us now though, that it was rarely, if ever used any more.

But now, Bluestreak was being as vocal as if he was talking up a storm. His doors bobbed and dipped eloquently, telling me of his fears and his need to go back to Praxis.

We never spoke of our home, Prowl, Blue, and I. We never discussed the pain of watching the entire city being razed to the ground. For Prowl and I, it was a loss to be sure, but we had long since moved on and away. But for Blue ... I can only imagine what it was like being inside the walls at the time of the Decepticon attack. I can only imagine the horrors that ended with a child picking up a gun that was almost as big as he was and shooting at an enemy he had never known. I cannot imagine trying that hard to protect my home and the bodies of my mentors.

I can only imagine the pain and anguish that Bluestreak keeps hidden every day of his life behind a wall of chatter and touch.

I don't know when my doors started to respond to his in kind, or when I started to share my own fears and horrors. All I know is that halfway through hour four, Bluestreak left his chair and climbed into my lap. Yes, it was uncomfortable. Praxians are not exactly designed for such things, but it didn't matter. All that mattered was that Bluestreak was back from wherever he went and he was safe. I sent a single word to Optimus and Ratchet. Clear. And I settled in to cuddle Bluestreak as best as I could.


	2. Perceptor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Smokescreen has his weekly session with Perceptor and tried to help him connect with the crew.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by the prompt: Relevant to my Interests

I smiled as Perceptor came into the room and sat down in my guest chair. It was amazing how he could manoeuvre around like so easily while never looking up from his data pad. Clearly the scientist's processor was on something other than our weekly session; but that was pretty much par when it came to him. Percy was a wonderful mech, but his thoughts were always a million miles away. I will admit that I worried about him sometimes. His obsession with whatever project he was working on at any given time could be viewed as an attempt at push others away, but I never thought that the answer was as simple as that. There was always a lot more to Perceptor than he displayed. What was the human saying? Still waters run deep?  
  
"Hi there, Percy," I said casually, hoping to draw the scientist's attention away from his pad.  
  
He ignored me. Actually, that was unfair. He'd never ignore another Autobot. He just hadn't registered that I'd said anything. There was a good possibility that he wasn't even aware that he was in my office.  
  
"Perceptor?" I prompted again, and again I was met with silence. Well, not silence. Percy was murmuring something sub-vocally, speaking to himself in Cybertronian.  
  
I chuckled softly to myself and stood. This was pretty much how most of our sessions went. Honestly, I never got much out of Perceptor. Not that I wasn't trying. He was just wrapped up that tightly behind several levels of personal security. He was hiding something, possibly even from himself, and it was my job to bring whatever it was to light.  
  
"Perceptor," I said again as I gently pulled the pad from his fingers.  
  
He looked up at me sharply, and it took everything in my not to back away. I had never seen such a look of pure anger and hatred in anyone's optics. And I've faced off against Brawl. This was the look of a stone cold killer with a vendetta.  
  
As quickly as the look appeared it was gone, replaced by by his normal, bemused smile. We would have to talk about whatever that was. But later. Today I had something else on my agenda.  
  
"I apologise, Smokescreen," he said as he folded his hands in his lap. "I was lost in my latest project."  
  
I put the pad on the table next to Perceptor and returned to my seat.  
  
"No worries, Percy. It happens to all of us from time to time. So long as I have your attention now, it's all good," I said. "So, anything you want to talk about this week?"  
  
Perceptor pursed his lips thoughtfully before shaking his head slightly.  
  
"No, I don't think so," he said slowly. "I've been keeping busy. Obviously," he added sheepishly as he motioned to the data pad. "But I have nothing that I need to discuss. After all, I don't want to bore you with the details of my various projects."  
  
"I may not understand everything about the projects, but I wouldn't be bored, Percy," I replied. And it was true. Yes, most of his work flew over my head, but that didn't mean that I wasn't interested in the bits I did understand. Perceptor was one of those mechs I could listen to for hours. He had a voice that just made you want to learn what it was he was talking about.  
  
"Oh," he said, honestly looking a tad flushed for a moment. "I just assumed that ... That is to say, most mechs would rather that I no discuss the higher ends of my work with them. They always want me to get to the point and speak in a lower form of language. It never occurred to me that ..." He trailed off with a sigh. "I apologise for my assumption, Smokescreen."  
  
I raised my hand slightly. "No need to apologise, Perce. I see how folks kind of glaze out when you start explaining things. It's unfortunate, but the fact is, a lot of people either can't or don't want to open themselves up to new experiences. And they forget that a reaction like that might lead to someone backing off."  
  
"Yes, I suppose that is as good an explanation as any," Perceptor replied, and a faint line formed between his eyes.  
  
I couldn't help but smirk. Perceptor had never hidden the fact that he thought psychology to be one of the soft sciences and, therefore, was less worthy than the hard sciences. Not that he had ever said as much to my face, but word go around.  
  
"Mech nature is mech nature," I said with a shrug. "It's unfortunate but it is what it is. But that doesn't mean that we can't rise above it and be better. And it doesn't mean that it doesn't hurt when we get dismissed for our interests."  
  
He looked at me for a very long time, in silence, as he parsed my words. I was used to this. My words always had a double meaning, and he knew that. He was one of the few mechs who was never caught in by my personal brand of bullshit that I called psychology. But that didn't mean that I wasn't right in this instance.  
  
"Yes. It can be ... _difficult_ ... to accept the ways in which I am treated by the other Autobots. But it is something that I have grown to accept. After all, I cannot expect them to change any more than they can expect me to change."  
  
"And yet they do," I said with a negligent shrug. "Every time they ask you to 'dumb it down' or to 'speak English', aren't they doing just that? There's no reason why you shouldn't expect that to go both ways. And there's no reason why you have to take their words silently."  
  
Perceptor waved his hand dismissively. "It is easier to accept things as they are than to try to change the very make up of those around us. It would be illogical and unscientific to think otherwise."  
  
"So you're just going to let them keep talking to you like that? You're going to stay all locked up in your lab only talking to Ratchet and Jack and Skyfire? That doesn't sound very pleasant to me," I said.  
  
Perceptor stiffened slightly. "I happen to enjoy their company. _They_ never ask me to be someone I am not."  
  
"True," I replied with a nod. "But that doesn't mean that you have to limit yourself to just them in your social circle. You can broaden your horizons and share your interests with others. You might be surprised who'd be happy to listen to you and learn from you. Once they get their heads out of their exhaust ports."  
  
"What are you suggesting, Smokescreen?" Perceptor asked, his optics narrowing slightly.  
  
"There was a human psychologist by the name of B.F. Skinner who proposed the idea of Operant conditioning. Are you familiar with the concept?" I asked as I casually sat back in my chair.  
  
Perceptor nodded. "I am vaguely familiar with the man and the concept. You are not suggesting that I start using electro-shocks on our colleagues, are you?"  
  
I actually laughed at that. I tried to stop myself but I couldn't. The mental image of Hot Rod getting a shock every time he did something dumb was just too vibrant in my imagination.  
  
"No, Percy," I said once I regained control. "No, I'm more suggesting _positive_ reinforcement. Make it worth their while to listen to you. Nothing so obvious as an energon goodie, but maybe try to show them what you're doing, instead of just telling them. Inject some fun into the mix. It couldn't hurt, right?"  
  
"So you want me to change for them," he said flatly.  
  
"No, I want you to adjust. Not change. I want you to consider adjusting your behaviour to better fit your environment. In so doing, I believe that you'll be able to help the others adjust to you. You come down one step, and they come up fifteen," I said.  
  
It was clear that I wasn't reaching him in the way I was hoping so I tried a different tack.  
  
"Okay, how about this: how about we spend the rest of the hour getting to know some Earth scientists. People who have made science more accessible to the masses by slightly changing their approach to the teaching."  
  
"Who do you suggest?" Perceptor asked, still clearly not willing to buy. At least not just yet.  
  
"I suggest Neil Degrasse Tyson, Bill Nye, and Carl Sagan. I would suggest the early works of Alton Brown as well, but I doubt you're ready to accept a chef as a scientists."  
  
"You would be right in your assessment," Perceptor replied, but there was a slight hint of amusement under the words.  
  
"Good. Pretty soon you'll have the rest of the Arc eating out of your hands and you'll have elevated the lot of them!"  
  
With that, I activated a screen in my office and pulled up some video footage of Star Talk. It was a good a place to start as any. Bill Nye the Science Guy would probably scare Percy off.


	3. Mirage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Something went wrong on a special ops mission and it's up to Smokescreen to spin it properly.

Mirage sat in stony silence across from me. Normally I tried to avoid meeting with Special Ops. It was hard enough to pin down that team under the best of circumstances, but when a psych session is involved, it becomes nigh impossible. And I was fine with that. Honestly.

Okay, so maybe I wasn't fine with it, but I'm nothing if not flexible, and I had put together a great system that worked for all of us. I'd stop by the Spec. Ops. office, I'd ask them how they were, they'd say fine, and I'd write some bullshit report to provide to Prime. Prime knew I was doing it. Special Ops knew I was doing it. It was all working out just fine. And then it didn't. _Prowl_ convinced Prime that we needed a proper psych evaluation for all three members of the team. And that brought us here. Me alone in a room with a very irritated Mirage.

"Okay, look," I said. "I know you don't want to be here, but if we sit here in total silence for the hour, we're just going to have to do this again next week. And the week after. And the week after that."

Again, Mirage said nothing and I had to hold back my already fraying temper.

"Or," I continued a tad more sharply than I probably should have, "you can tell me what happened in this last mission and we can work on a proper spin to tell Prime."

Mirage finally turned to look at me, his optics steely. "I do not need the help of a con artist with a forged certification."

"It isn't forged," I replied.

Mirage's look turned sardonic. "Fine. A _stolen_ certification. One that you did not earn and one that you do not deserve."

I wasn't going to argue the point with him but there was no point. It would only serve to waste what remained of our hour. I needed to try something different.

"Fine. But all of that is beside the point. I am the only psychologist on the base, and the only mech between here and Cybertron who can do the job. So, unless you want to wait until Rung is brought to Earth, you need to get over this, and let me help you," I said.

I could practically see the gears working in Mirage's head as he contemplated the possibilities. Even if Prime agreed to a transfer, Rung wouldn't be able to get here for at least an Earth year, and he would be bringing the Wreckers with him. It was hardly an ideal situation, given how coarse and unpredictable that team was. Add to that, if Mirage agreed to wait for Rung, Smokescreen would convince Prime to bench the noble. After all, something had gone wrong in this last mission, and that problem had somehow been Mirage's fault.

"At least you can trust me not to talk," I said gently. "I may be many things, but I take my oaths seriously. That's why I'm always careful with them. I know you don't want to believe it, but you can trust me."

Mirage was quiet for a long time. I didn't understand his reasons for hating me as much as he did. Yes, I had a less-than-honest history, but I had proven myself time and time again as both an Autobot and as a member of Special Operations and Tactical. Whatever his reasons, they were something I would have to suss out at a later date. Right now the issue was hand was this last mission. A mission that had landed both Jazz and Bumblebee in medical and had nearly blown up in all the Autobot's faces. It was a disaster than had certain mechs questioning whether or not Bombshell's cerebro-shell had actually been removed completely.

"Mirage?" I prompted softly.

He finally sighed.

"Fine," he said, managing to sound irritated and defeated at the same time. "Fine. But this doesn't leave this room. I will hold you the promise that I can trust you."

"Whatever it is will not leave this room until it has been properly spun," I replied solemnly. "I you and Jazz that much."

"You owe us more," he said, and there was actually a hint of humour at the edges of his words. He sobered and sat back in his chair, finally seeming slightly at ease.

The silence descended again, but it was less strained this time and I was willing to wait for Mirage to start speaking.

"It was supposed to be a quick in and out," Mirage finally said. "Elita One's troops were providing us with the distraction we needed to get into Darkmount. We were on a strict schedule. Each aspect had been timed perfectly with only the smallest margin for error. I was to go in first, and camp out in a specific utility closet. ... I honestly have no idea why Elita's troops were in the base proper. They were never supposed to be that far in, and since I was on radio silence, they had no way to warn me of the change ..."

Now that he was talking, I could begin my work. Once I knew what it was that they were supposed to be doing, once I knew what it was they had _actually_ done, I could fix the spin. Now that I finally had Mirage's trust, it was easier. And hopefully it would remain that way.


	4. Beachcomber

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes we just need silence to reset ourselves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is set after "The Golden Lagoon".

It took me a long time to find our resident geologist and naturalist. Beachcomber can be surprisingly hard to find when he doesn't want to be. And this was definitely a case of him hoping to hide away. Not that I can blame him. War is hard under the best of circumstances, but when it leads to the death and destruction of something truly innocent and beautiful? Yeah, I could see why the mech was hiding.

I knew that he'd be outside. I knew that he'd be somewhere far from Red Alert's cameras but still close to the Ark. That narrowed the options down a lot. I narrowed it down even further when I finally smelled that tell-tale scent of lead sulfides, sulfuric solids, and some organic elements mixed into an inhalable compound.

"Hey Beachcomber," I said softly. "Mind if I join you?"

The small blue minibot had found himself a spot next to a small stream in a nearby for rested area. We weren't too far away from the off road track we had put in a few years ago, and within quick driving distance from the Arks main doors, but we were still far enough into the "wild" that very few mechs would find us. I could count on one hand the number of mechs who weren't still freaked out by the organic nature of this planet. Most hid it well but that didn't mean that they were going to plan a camping trip any time soon.

Beachcomber was one of the few who seemed to actually prefer this world. Not only prefer; I'd be tempted to say that he was thriving here. But we can't thrive all the time.

Beachcomber looked up at me, his optics more than a little glazed. He seemed to contemplate the question and I have to say, I wasn't sure if he was deciding or simply trying to parse the question. Either way, he eventually nodded and patted the earth beside him.

"Yeah, sure, mech. More than enough room."

As soon as I had sat he took a long drag of whatever relaxant it was that he had concocted. The device looked almost like an Earth pipe - a long stem with a hollow globe halfway up the shaft and a small container at the end. The container was stuffed with a smouldering substance that was producing a faint blue smoke.

"Where'd you find syk?" I asked, genuinely interested. I had not seen the drug in millennia, and hadn't thought that any of it still existed.

"It's not syk," Beachcomber said, his tone and manners completely relaxed and calm. "But it's about as close as I could concoct on this world."

He shrugged. "I figured that if Sideswipe could make his own moonshine, I could make my own syk." Then his optics narrowed slightly. "You not gonna tell Prime, are you?"

"Not unless he directly asks," I replied. "And even then, I might not. So long as you don't use too much and don't let it interfere with your blah blah blah. You know the whole spiel." I waved my hand dismissively. "Mind if I take a drag? It's been almost longer than I can remember."

Beachcomber smiled and handed over the pipe. I took a long drag and coughed slightly as it hit my systems.

"Wow," I said once I had regained my composure. "I'd forgotten what that first hit felt like. This new bod's not used to it."

"Clearly we'll have to rectify that," Beachcomber replied as he took the pipe back. "So what brings you out here? You didn't strike me as the outdoorsy type."

"I'm not," I replied as I leaned back, bracing myself with my arms behind me. "The wildlife still gives me the heebie jeebies, but you're out here. So I'm out here."

"Hunh?" Beachcomber asked, looking at me side-eyed.

"I was worried about you," I said after I took another drag of the syk. It really was helping to mellow me out. I had honestly forgotten just what it felt like to be on this stuff. It was nowhere as good as the pure syk that we used to have on Cybertron, but this was a close ... fifth, maybe.

"I'm fine," Beachcomber replied. "Or I will be. I just need some time out here. You know ... to reassure myself that we didn't kill all of it."

I nodded and we sat in silence, passing the syk back and forth between us until it was finally gone.


End file.
